


No Regrets

by tklivory



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A templar is trapped in Kinloch Hold during Uldred's takeover of the Circle Tower in Fereldan. Cullen survived the mental gambits of the demons. But how did another deal with the same onslaught of the demons within his mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a contest for Bioware to mark the release of David Gaider's book Dragon Age: Asunder. The challenge: write a story from the perspective of a templar or a mage.

.~^~.

He stood at the window, gazing down at the dark waters of Lake Calenhad. The distant stars scintillated above, uncaring of the travails of those below as their pulsations reflected on the restless surface of the water like ephemeral wisps dancing with the moon's liquid twin. The mirrored movement drew him in, away from his thoughts and his fears, the grace enchanting him with the beguiling promise of peace.

Abruptly a shudder ran through him as memories arose within. The glimmering on the water transformed and grew, becoming the flare of flame and the lance of lightning. His head jerked as his hands rose instinctively to summon his defense... and then fell, slack at his sides.  _Only a memory... this is... only in my head..._

A fiery voice of rage echoed in his mind, lacerating his thoughts.  _"Remember? Remember when I entered your heart?"_

.~^~.

He hitched his shoulders beneath his heavy plate armor, fighting the heavy pull of its weight. He had just earned the right to the full Templar regalia, and he refused to admit any weakness or inadequacy, particularly in front of one who, many agreed, had the ambition and temperament to go far up the ranks of the Templar Order.

He watched as Knight-Lieutenant Greagoir analyzed the surrounding area, dark eyes attempting to pierce the darker undergrowth they had been moving through for the better part of an hour. The maleficar they pursued was canny in addition to being ruthless - as the bodies of all of his victims could attest to - but he had also made his share of mistakes since the templars had been set on his heels. In the week since the man's slaughter of a small caravan, they had managed to reduce the lead down to a matter of hours, and, judging by the caution that had been growing in Greagoir's mien, perhaps even a matter of minutes.

Turning to those gathered behind him, Greagoir held up a hand, thumb and pointer finger in a circle, the remaining three fingers extended. Immediately the templars scattered, moving to take up the pre-arranged positions dictated by that silent command.

As the youngest member of the squad, he fell back, taking his distance from the rest of them. Hefting his axe, he waited, albeit reluctantly, for the hunt to end, one way or another. He understood the tactics that dictated he stand apart from the conflict, ready to carry word of failure back to the templars at the Chantry so that the maleficar may yet be caught, but that didn't mean he particularly  _relished_ it.

Even as he came to a stop in the convenient shade of a nearby tree, his hands twisting about the haft of his weapon, the air rippled around the others, presaging the use of magic. However, the attack came too quickly for his fellows to properly respond, and the squad devolved into chaos. In horror he watched them pull out their weapons and turn on each other, hacking mindlessly, primal growls echoing from their helmets as the blood magic took them. Even Greagoir had been rendered helpless, though he had not succumbed to the mind control; he merely stood in place, holding his head in his hands and shouting in pain and frustration, unable to break loose long enough to smite the foe.

A movement caught his attention, and in the dark shadows of a large tree he detected a figure in a black robe crouched partially behind its trunk. One hand raked a dagger in a line across an arm to draw forth a rivulet of blood for the dark magic, and his expression was fixed in a strange rictus comprised of pleasure, pain and concentration.

Deep within, something latched into him, grabbing deep, and suddenly he was running the short distance between himself and the maleficar, mouth open in a soundless snarl of rage. His axe came down, cleaving the head of the maleficar in two.

The templars instantly collapsed, including Greagoir, though he merely sank to his knees in exhaustion from his mental combat. Leaving the maleficar's body where it lay, he wrenched his axe out of the corpse and stood for a moment, chest heaving, trying to clear the fire from his brain.

A touch came to his arm, causing him to turn. A young man stood before him, dark eyes concerned beneath a furrowed brow, his mouth moving, though the particular  _words_  took some time to register. Vaguely the young templar heard a question, and he forced his mind to respond to the inquiry. "I'm fine, Warden," he said, recognizing the man's attire. "The maleficar is dead." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, trying to force the redness from his vision. Pushing himself to motion, he went to his field commander and offered a hand up.

"Excellent work, Ser Bran," Greagoir congratulated him with a slight smile as he regained his feet. "I see I shall have to keep an eye on you."

The praise almost drowned out the rage.

.~^~.

The red haze lingered around the periphery of his vision as the memory once again receded to the past. Struggling to regain his self-control, his fist struck the wall next to the tall window he had sought in his induced daze. The remaining glass shattered and fell to the ground at his feet, the lead between the colored panes unable to withstand the jarring end of its journey. His metal boots further ground the glass into powder as he shifted closer to the now empty window frame.

_I must... fight... All in... my head..._

The sensation of a slight, delicate hand reached up and caressed his face from behind, though he knew that if he turned, he would encounter naught but empty air.  _All in my mind.._. He closed his eyes and shuddered involuntarily at the phantom touch, the revulsion that rose so sharply at first giving way to  _desire_.  _"You have not forgotten_ me _, have you, my heart?"_

.~^~.

He moved down the corridors of the Tower, steps quick and sure, a stack of papers held in one hand and a serious expression on his face. Since his arrival at the Tower of the Circle of Magi three years prior, one of the hand-picked contingent of templars that the newly appointed Knight-Commander Greagoir had brought with him from his previous command, he had served the man faithfully, carrying out his duties with unquestioning loyalty and exacting precision.

_Yet every man must, at some point, listen to his heart._

He reached his destination, a small storage room next to the library relegated to housing odd-sized apprentice robes. Ostensibly, he was here to take an inventory. Ostensibly.

As the door closed behind him, he silently pushed the bolt home, set the papers in his hand on a nearby chest, and said softly, "I am here."

A woman emerged from the shadows between the boxes, her mage's robes hugging her figure in a way that, as always, warmed the blood in his veins. They came together, their passion evident in their kiss, their intimacy displayed in the confident manner in which his hands began to wander over that cloth-enclosed body.

With a reluctant sigh, the woman placed her hands on his chest and placed a minimal distance between them, interrupting the customary  _preliminaries_ , as it were, to the activities in which they normally indulged when together. Concerned, he brought up a hand to cup her dear face, gazing intently into those bright blue eyes. "What is it, my heart?" he asked quietly. "I came when I received your message. I thought you finally had some time free from teaching apprentices so that we..." He blushed slightly, even after all these months, then smiled and kissed her forehead. "That is..."

Her gaze softened, and her hand came up to caress the one upon her cheek. "It is true that our duties have kept us apart as of late. And it is also true that normally I would like nothing more than to be in your arms at this moment, but... there is something which I  _must_ tell you, before we continue our... time together."

Now  _truly_  concerned, he lowered his hand and took both of her hands in his. "Tell me what it is that troubles you so. Is it about that young elven apprentice of yours that ran away? I have requested information from Greagoir, but I haven't yet had a chance to speak with-"

She stood on her tiptoes and lightly touched his lips with her own, effectively silencing him. "No. This is more... immediate, more personal, then poor Aneirin." Slowly, she took one of his hands and placed it flat upon her lower abdomen, covering his large scarred hand with her own petite one. " _Much_  more personal."

It took several seconds for the meaning of her action to register, and then he felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. He met her eyes, seeing the uncertainty and fear in them, knowing that his own gaze likely reflected a similar welter of confusion and hesitation. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to steady himself, but did not move his hand away from her womb. "Does anyone else know?"

"Irving, of course, since he has been helping us all this time. But other than he, no," she whispered. "I... don't know what to do, Bran. I-"

He reacted to the tears in her eyes, drawing her into his embrace, careful not to crush her against his armor. "Hush, Wynne. For now, in this moment, we still have each other."

Her arms remained between them, her hands gripping tightly at the collar of his breastplate as her shoulders shook with suppressed emotion. Yet even as they clung together, they both knew that the future loomed large in front of them.  _A mage and a templar..._  Doomed from the beginning, when her blue eyes had sparked at him in anger during her Harrowing, when he had taken her back to her quarters afterward, when she had thanked him in a quiet voice for his laughter that had chased her into the Fade.. The desire had been with them, even then, and in all the months that followed.

He never saw his son, never knew his name. And he never again held her in his arms, nor any other woman. The  _desire_  had retreated, buried deep within his breast, never again to be acted upon, but also never to be forgotten.

.~^~.

A sharp wind howled down the side of the Tower, finding the templar standing in the broken window and breaking him free of the cage of anamnesis. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes of the tears that threatened, wishing he could blame them upon the cold air and the whipping gale. The ragged rents in his armor allowed the wind to penetrate beneath to his skin, cooling the blood as it seeped from his gaping wounds. The blood now ran the length of his body, saturating his gambeson and smalls, filling his socks, and rendering his body into a palette of red, crimson and black. His eyes once more sought the gentle motion of the lake's surface below, the mental fight within exacting a far worse penalty to his wellbeing than the physical combat he had endured.

His mind recoiled. In all his years as a templar, never had he imagined the  _extent_  of the horrors he had been forced to face this day. He had seen abominations, of course - one did not serve as a templar for long without encountering them on occasion, either within a Harrowing or when a maleficar or apostate suffered from more ambition than skill. But to have encountered them in such numbers...

His foot lifted, settling itself upon the bottom of the frame around the window. His body shifted forward slightly, then hesitated.  _I cannot... this is not... I must fight..._

" _Why fight? You have all you need right here."_  No hand, this time, but rather a smooth, commanding stream of sound, imbued with all the subtle power of a master to its slave.  _The most familiar one of them all_. The voice surrounded his thoughts, suborned all free will, as it whispered within his mind, stealing over his thoughts.  _"Have I not been with you, these many years, giving you what you needed to overcome your limitations?"_  He closed his eyes, trying to fight the urge to grovel, to  _submit_.

Yet the words continued to flow through his mind.  _"It was_ **I** _who moved you beyond your_ rage  _to serve with such precise calculation,_ **I** _who drove you to action when otherwise your_ sloth  _would have consumed you,_ **I** _who moved you beyond the weakness of_ desire _."_ He felt like prey, being circled by a predator closing in for the kill.  _"It was_ **I** _who taught you the true value of_ pride  _in one's own abilities."_  The voice moved over and through his mind - persuasive, confident,  _invasive -_ penetrating his defenses and tugging at the reins so long in place around his soul.  _"Do you deny that any_ pride _you have in your life is only because of_ **my** _intervention in it?"_

He nodded his head, reluctantly, not wishing to agree with the entity, but discovering he was unable to fight back any longer. Even though that small, unclaimed part of his mind knew the lie for what it was - that no  _demon_  controlled him, and never had - the rest of his soul yearned for a release from the torture, an end to the whispers digging through his mind.  _Perhaps Cullen can find the strength to withstand Uldred and his cronies. I cannot._

His hands tightened upon the window frame, and he pulled himself fully into the aperture. Yet again he hesitated, his mind trying to scream at him to fight back, to step back into the Tower and smite the demons back to the Fade from whence it came.

Yet that voice inveigled itself upon his mind.  _"I gave you_ pride _in life. Would you not like to keep that, even in death?"_

With a great sigh, he ceased fighting. It was right. 'Twas better to stop  _fighting_ , to give in, to  _rest_ , in a time and manner of his own choosing.

He looked up at the stars, remembering how they had sparkled in a clear sky during his vigil on the night he had become a member of the Templar Order. Life had been so much...  _simpler_  then. No responsibilities, no mistakes, no pride...

No regrets.

With a sigh, Bran straightened fully, rising above the pain of his dying body, hands reaching to the top of the window frame, taking one last look down at the waters of Lake Calenhad, at the dance of the stars and the moon.

Then he stepped forward, the wind taking him as it would, free of regrets once more.

.~^~.


End file.
